


Matters of Varying Gravity

by merulanoir



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Medium Chaos (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: Teague Martin has been a soldier and a highwayman. Now he is just one bad decision away from becoming something else entirely.
Relationships: Daud/Teague Martin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Matters of Varying Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing smut and then my trash grew a plot. Enjoy.

**1824**

Dunwall was not like Fraeport. It wasn’t like Wynnedown either, and the Gristolian Fugue Feast sure wasn’t like the Festival of Churners. The streets of the island’s capitol were alive with dance, music, and fireworks, but there was a dark aura over the whole damned celebration. The people were _desperate_ to enjoy themselves, and Teague Martin tugged his cap lower. 

This had most likely been a mistake. Morley was still struggling in the aftermath of the Insurrection, and Dunwall was probably the last place in the Empire where a former soldier was welcome. And soldier wasn’t even the last role Teague had adopted before leaving his home island. 

Teague looked around himself, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension making him tense. Dunwall was gray stone and rusty metal, and the building towered over his head so unlike in Morley. What possessed the Gristolians to build like this? Couldn’t they have spread the city outwards instead of reaching up, in the process choking out all daylight trying to reach the streets below?

The said daylight was quickly fading. Teague shifted his weight and sighed. He should just go back to his lodgings near the Distillery District, where everything smelled of fish and booze, and wait out the Feast. Getting involved with anything here would just spell trouble. He should wait for the Abbey to sound the bells, and then catch the first ship to Serkonos. 

_And then I can burn and blister in the Southern heat like so many of my countrymen,_ Teague thought without any humor. _Become yet another unfortunate soul who had to leave their home._

An ear-cracking _bang_ made him flinch and then scowl. A group of teenagers were laughing as they set off another bigger firework, and Teague turned heel to leave. 

This had been one giant mistake.

*

He made it to the bridge before he noticed someone was following him. Teague had stopped to gaze towards the sea when the man caught his eye. He stood perfectly still, not averting his gaze from the last red of the sunset glistening over Wrenhaven, and tried to think.

The bridge was long and narrow, just two lanes for railcarts and a pedestrian sidewalk. It ran from the Drapers’ Ward to the Distillery District, and Teague had taken that road quite often in the past three weeks. Too often, it seemed, if he had caught someone’s eye.

He risked a glance and cringed: the man was looking straight at him. He was leaning against the bridge railing only ten meters away from Teague, staring back without even playing at stealth. 

Teague swallowed with a click. The man wasn’t particularly tall, but he looked like trouble incarnate; rough features, Serkonan-dark skin, and such a sharp gaze it made sweat prickle between Teague’s shoulder blades. The man had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his red jacket, but even his easy stance betrayed a threat.

Teague looked back towards the Distillery District. The bridge suddenly seemed much longer than usually, and he dimly wondered if the thug wanted to rob or kill him, and if both, in what order.

They stood quiet for several minutes. The man didn’t move closer and he didn’t look away. Teague risked another glance at him, with just as little information gained.

Finally he turned away and started walking again. His heart was thumping against his ribs. Turning his back was probably stupid, but maybe the guy would leave. Maybe he would see Teague had less than ten coins to his name and quite enough problems as it was.

He wanted to sigh in defeat when footsteps followed him. The man walked faster than him and caught up with ease. Teague forced himself not to turn around. He knew his tension was visible in the line of his shoulders and the way he almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. He kept his eyes on the blurry spot where the bridge ended.

He was halfway across the bridge when it became too much. Teague stopped on his tracks and squeezed his hands into fists. His breaths were coming too fast. The sounds of the Feast were floating over the river, fireworks glittering over the dark waves, and Teague looked towards the distant shore and tried to think of witty last words.

“Morley, eh?”

When had he closed his eyes? Teague opened them, but when he tried to turn around the man closed the distance. A warm, calloused hand closed around his wrist to stop him, and Teague froze.

He’d lived a wholly unremarkable life. His Ma would’ve probably been disappointed, had she lived through the Famine.

“Wynnedown? Caulkenny?” The man’s voice was rough and quiet. His breath ruffled the short hair sticking out from under Teague’s cap. Gooseflesh erupted all over his body.

“Fraeport,” Teague finally bit out. What did it matter if the guy knew this?

The man chuckled. Teague closed his eyes again. The bridge was completely deserted. No one would hear if he shouted for help, and even if they did, this was Dunwall and the Fugue. No help would come.

“Long way from home.”

“Could say the same about you,” Teague muttered through his teeth. The man had the soft Serkonan lilt in his speech, at odds with the sandpaper of his voice. The next chuckle sounded more genuine. 

“Sharp eyes you’ve got.”

“Please,” Teague scoffed before he could rein in his sharp tongue. “You look like you just stepped off a ship from Cullero.”

A rough hand closed around his other wrist. Teague dragged in a shuddery breath. This was it. He was going to die.

“Karnaca.”

He opened his eyes again. The horizon was swimming. 

“I—what?” he squeaked.

A huff of amusement against the back of his neck. “Never been to Cullero. Everyone knows it’s a shithole.”

“I guess you’d know one.” 

Teague wanted to hit himself. For some reason the man hadn’t killed him yet, hadn’t even robbed him; and here he was, trying his very best to give him a reason to do it. With massive effort, Teague forced some of the tension to yield. He sucked in a breath when he felt the wide chest of the guy against his back.

“Are all Morleyans so prickly?” The man squeezed his wrists, and only then Teague realized he wasn’t holding them especially hard. He could wrench himself free, make a dash towards the shore. He was taller and lighter, maybe he could outrun him—

A reedy gasp escaped Teague’s mouth when warm lips pressed against his neck. His whole body bowed into a startled arch, and the air between him and the man felt surprisingly cold through his thin shirt. Teague didn’t have the time to think or react. The man closed the distance and then his mouth opened in a shockingly hot and wet flash against the same spot on Teague’s neck.

He could have run. He could have yanked his hands free and run.

A violent shudder tore through him, and before sense could chime in Teague had pressed back against the man. The hands holding his wrists were suddenly gone, alighting around his waist and pulling him flush against the solid frame behind him. And all the while the man kept his mouth busy on his neck, teeth and tongue and lips.

“Fuck—” Teague rasped. He was still more than half certain he was going to die, but if it’d involve getting off one last time, so be it.

“Finally caught on?” the man rumbled a laugh against his ear. “You looked like you were going to bolt.” He walked his left hand lower until it was resting against Teague’s thigh like a hot coal. The other had already buried itself under Teague’s shirt. 

Teague bit his lip and then rolled his ass backwards. He let out a rush of breath when it met something delightfully hard. The man hummed against his neck, teeth scraping skin just below his ear. There were sword calluses on the hand currently petting his stomach.

“To be fair,” Teague bit out, “you look like you’re up to no good.” He repeated the motion, and the man bit his neck harder, eliciting a moan.

“Look who’s talking.” The man palmed Teague’s cock through his trousers. “How much coin on your head, Fraeport? I’m willing to bet you were in Arran.”

“Pah,” Teague grinned. He reached back and ran his hands down the guy’s flanks. “Shit place for a holiday.” He was rewarded with another bite, just as his hips bucked into the solid weight of the hand cupping him.

“Well?” The grin was clear in that voice. “Have a place? Want to make some more bad decisions?”

“Void, yes.” Teague shoved aside the voice inside his brain that said this was a bad idea, that he was meant to keep his nose out of trouble. This guy was trouble from head to toe, and Teague wanted him so badly he thought he might burst. “It’s not far, I live in the house right next to the Distillery.”

“Hmm.” 

Suddenly the man hugged him closer. Teague opened his mouth to say something, and then reality crumbled around him.

His feet hit something hard and solid, and had the guy not been holding him tight Teague would have ended up kissing the cracked tiles of his kitchen floor. His breath rushed out with a horrified whimper. For a few seconds the only sound was the ticking of the clock.

“The fuck,” Teague whispered. Then, louder: “What the fuck—”

The guy started to laugh. It was deep and rough, and before Teague could even begin to process what in the Void had just happened, the man flipped him around, backed him against the wall, and kissed him.

When unexpected and impossible things happen, you can go crazy trying to understand them. You can try to force them into a box of your liking and eventually succumb to despair when those attempts fail. Teague Martin stood frozen to the spot for five long seconds, idly contemplating his life and how it had led him here, and then he quickly bypassed all the options of making sense of the situation. He parted his lips with a loud moan, tugged the guy closer to slot their hips together, and grabbed his ass. The man (a heretic, Teague thought, and his cock jerked inside his pants) laughed into his mouth.

*

Teague woke up several hours later. The dull predawn light illuminated the miserable hole he called his bedroom. It took him several moments to understand that not all the clothes strewn across the floor were his own. The red jacket lay crumbled next to the door.

“Go back to sleep,” came a low grumble next to him. Teague turned to look, but the man still had his eyes closed. His eyes had been a very deep gray, Teague remembered. Like storm clouds rolling in over the Northern sea. They had looked almost feral earlier, when Teague had been pinned down.

“Fine.” Teague slumped back down and burrowed a bit closer to the warmth. The man slung a heavy, scarred arm over his waist. They were both naked and quite filthy.

“They won’t sound the bells ‘til this evening,” the guy mumbled into the pillow, still without opening his eyes. Teague watched his face closely. The scar over his right eye looked quite fresh. His stubble had been rough where it had rubbed Teague’s thighs raw earlier. 

“Afraid the Abbey will catch you?” Teague yawned. 

The guy opened one eye and squinted at him. Then he grinned. “I don’t worry. You should.”

“Pah.” Teague rolled closer and dragged his toes up and down the hairy calf. “I’m not in the habit of making grave errors.”

“No?” His bed partner shifted, arms suddenly around Teague again. He was strong enough to drag Teague on top of himself. “What do you call this, then?”

Teague rocked his hips and shuffled until his knees were spread wide. He could tell he was still loose and leaking from earlier. “Making friends? Getting to know the fascinating Gristolian culture?”

The man barked a laugh and kissed him. He was a fantastic kisser, Teague reflected with a grin. Greedy and decisive, just like the rest of him, it seemed.

“What do I call you?” Teague panted when they finally came up for air. His head was maybe swimming a bit. 

The guy gave him a puckish smirk as his hands drifted lower under the duvet. “Daud,” he said in a low voice. “Although that is a name you’d do well to forget once I’m gone.”

Teague rolled his eyes. The voice of reason had been shoved very far back by now. “I’ll have you know that my memory is excellent.”

Daud grinned wider. Teague groaned as fingers dipped inside him, two and then three, until he was fucking himself on them and possibly drooling on Daud’s chest. His cock was dripping precum.

“And you?” Daud whispered against his mouth as he finally pulled his fingers out and took a hold of his cock. Teague sat back and bit his lip as he was breached again. It went smoother now; Daud was as wide as a fucking barn and his cock had been cast in the same mold. Teague bottomed out with a pleased whine, and only opened his eyes when Daud flicked his nipple painfully.

Teague gave him a mock-glare as he started to ride Daud. “Teague Martin. Former soldier, former highwayman, currently a wretched layabout.”

Daud laughed.


End file.
